Seven Thunders
by sandysoul
Summary: Constantine and Angela race to prevent Hell from getting the upper hand as the balance falls apart. Chapter 2 up.
1. Chapter 1

**_Rating:_** _T for language, demonic images, violence. Rating may change to M._

**_Disclaimer:_** _Not mine. Pity. No money made, no damage intended. Don't sue._

_**A/N: **Notes at the bottom of the chapter. Story begins six months after the movie._

* * *

_And when the seven thunders spoke, I was about to write; but I heard a voice from heaven say, "Seal up what the seven thunders have said and do not write it down."_ – Revelation 10:4

**Seven Thunders**

* * *

_**Chapter One**_

Constantine slouched in front of his table, one hand lying limp on his knee, one resting next to the pack of cigarettes. He reached out one slow finger, flicking it over the rough surface. The pack skidded to the edge but didn't fall. Licking his lips, he took a deep breath. The air filling his clean lungs tasted like smog and dust. He wanted a cigarette badly. The fingers of the hand on the table jittered and tapped. The gum was supposed to keep his nerves from reacting to the lack of nicotine, but it wasn't the same. He missed the comforting warmth of smoke in his chest, the honest smell of burning tobacco—nothing like sulfur—and the solid weight of his gold lighter. He missed always having something to do with his hands. He missed the effortless contempt that holding a lighted cigarette projected to the world. He wanted a fucking cigarette. Abruptly, he threw himself out of his chair and grabbed his coat, heading for the door.

Striding along the street with his hands in his pockets and his head down, he ran straight into a kid. The boy snarled something in Spanish and shoved him aside, sprinting down the sidewalk. Constantine turned listlessly and watched as he disappeared around a corner. The sound of pounding feet came again, and he swiveled to watch a uniformed police officer and an older man running toward him.

"Did you see a kid run past here?" shouted the officer without stopping. He didn't bother to answer, just jerked a thumb in the right direction. The officer ran on, but the older man, obviously the boy's father, stumbled to a halt and tried to catch his breath, leaning his hands on his knees.

"He's a good boy. A good boy," the man panted in heavily accented English, sounding bewildered and broken. Still gasping, he went on, "_No lo comprendo, lo ha poseído el Diablo,_" and rubbed at his eyes as though trying to wipe away a nightmare. Constantine watched him and reached into his coat pocket for a piece of gum.

A fat woman in stretch pants stepped out of one of the peeling doors in the projects and came toward them down the sidewalk. He lifted his head alertly as she came nearer, seeing the red sheen of a half breed playing across her eyes. She approached the boy's father slowly and ignored Constantine. But she knew who he was. He could tell. "_Oye, Agustín,"_ she said, and glanced up through her heavy mascara at Constantine, who stared back impassively. She put her arm around Agustín, pulling him back to the apartments as she went on, "_no te culpes, él que venda las drogas es hijo del infierno…"_ They walked out of earshot, Agustín leaning on the half breed for comfort. She looked over her shoulder at Constantine and shot him a mocking grin, her face warping and stretching to show twisted black teeth.

Spitting his gum out on the sidewalk, Constantine started after them, walking fast. After a few steps, she noticed him following and sped up. She tugged on Agustín's arm, trying to hurry him, but he resisted. Pulling his arm away from her he looked behind them, his eyes sliding uncaringly past Constantine. He called, "Juanito?" and stared at the half breed in confusion as she snarled something at him and grabbed his arm again.

Constantine was only a few steps away when the half breed panicked. Spitting insults in Hellspeak, she left Agustín standing in the middle of the street and took to her heels, fat legs pumping as fast as they would go. Shocked, Agustín watched Constantine run after her. She ducked between one building and another and was gone. Constantine looked at the row of bland apartment doors on either side of the alley and cursed before retracing his steps until he was face to face with Agustín.

"Mister? What the hell?"

"Her name," Constantine snapped.

"What? Look, she know you, or what?"

"Her _name_."

"Pacha. Hey, leave her alone, she's my neighbor, good woman. She's helping me with my kid," Agustín said and rubbed at his face again.

"I bet. What'd he do?" Constantine slid a hand in his pocket for a cigarette and came up with a pack of gum. "Fuck."

"They say he shot a man, killed him. They say he's pushing." Agustín shook his head, denying that his world could have fallen apart like this. "He's fifteen. _Jesucristo._"

_Typical lazy half breed bitch_, Constantine thought viciously. _Start whispering in the ear of some kid who hasn't got half a chance to start with. Easy blood._ There were shouts, and a siren howled briefly as a cop car pulled into the curb. _Looks like Juanito's going down._ Agustín hurried forward as two cops in uniform got out of the car, a third sitting in back with a skinny kid in handcuffs. Another unit pulled in behind them, and suddenly there were officers everywhere.

Constantine strolled off, popping a piece of gum in his mouth. Influencing some kid hellward wasn't against the balance, but he was willing to bet he could find a reason to deport Pacha if he looked hard enough. Maybe he'd just deport her for the hell of it. Midnite was the one who bought into that balance bullshit, not him. Maybe he'd just find Pacha and beat the crap out of her.

Whatever. It beat sitting around wishing for a cigarette.

* * *

**MISSING TEEN.** _Sarah Peters, 14, has been missing from her home in Irvine since 4/29/06. If you have seen her, please call..._

Angela Dodson gulped her coffee and dropped the paper on the kitchen table. Grabbing her hair back into a ponytail, she kicked at the papers and cushions on the floor next to the sofa, looking for her purse. Scooping it up, she tried to slide the strap over her shoulder at the same time she pulled her jacket on. After a confused moment or two, she managed it. A quick check in the mirror to make sure she didn't have hair sticking out in a weird direction or coffee drips on her blouse, and then a more serious check that was part of her routine every time she left the apartment: badge, gun, amulet.

Locking the door behind her, she remembered the last article she'd read. _Sarah Peters._ Missing. A non-story buried on page nine with a photograph in case someone with too much time on their hands happened to spot her. Angie didn't know how many teenagers went missing in LA in a year and didn't want to know. Usually they ran away. Sometimes they were taken. Either way they were heading straight down, and she'd had too many homicide cases that came to her months after a sad little notice and photograph: _Missing teen._

So why even notice Sarah Peters? Angela didn't know, but the article haunted her, shining in her memory as though it had been outlined in light. Once, she'd have ignored the feeling, or passed it off as stress and overwork. All detectives had to deal with the stress of knowing too much about the human condition. But now, Angela was unhappily certain that the feeling meant something. Now, she knew too much about things that went far beyond merely human. Now, she couldn't deny it or shut it out – Sarah Peters' disappearance was on her mind, and sooner or later she would know why.

_Damn him,_ she thought as she climbed into her car, then immediately scolded herself. _It's not his fault. He tried to warn you, Angie. You were the one who wanted to have your Sight back. Congratulations. You're stuck with it now._ Slamming the car door with unnecessary roughness, she started the engine.

The morning passed slowly. She'd arrived at the precinct and bravely confronted a cop's worst job – endless paperwork. Reports to file, forms to fill out, memos to answer. In the middle of a routine call the thought whispered across her mind. _Sarah Peters._ She found herself doodling the name in the margins of reports, tapping out its rhythm with her pen.

"Looks like we got a full moon this week." Superintendent Weiss slammed a thick file down on her desk and hitched his hip over the corner.

"No, we don't," Angela replied without looking up from her computer. "Last quarter."

Weiss rolled his eyes. "I don't believe you know that off the top of your head. I just meant things are getting wacky out there. Guy robbed a Mickey D's in a clown suit, bunch of end-of-the-world nuts lying in the middle of the road stopping traffic because Jesus told them to, that kind of crap. Big spike in domestics, shootings, assaults. It's been that kind of week, and it's only Tuesday." Weiss laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. "Oh, and you're getting a new partner."

Angela grunted. It wasn't unexpected, after Weiss' promotion, but she wasn't looking forward to learning to work with someone new. Hopefully her new partner would know enough to stay out of her way until he learned his way around. "So, who?"

"Kaczynski. Guy from Narcotics, you know him?"

Her eyebrows went up. Mike Kaczynski had been successful heavyweight boxer before retiring and joining the force. A huge man with dark chocolate skin, battered face, and slow deep voice, his physical presence was intimidating. And after a good look at his eyes – sharp and hard in his worn face – people tended not to underestimate the brain that went along with the brawn. Kaczynski wasn't someone you messed with.

"Yeah. Isn't he senior to me, though? I thought I'd be training a new detective?" Angela kept her voice even, but she was afraid she knew what was coming.

"Angie..." Weiss hesitated, then shrugged. "Well, shit. You know you're not doing so hot as far as the chief is concerned." She gave him a look. "Yeah, OK, so I've been wondering too. Shoot me. It's just, since your sister passed away..." he trailed off, and then swung his hands up into his lap and adopted a buddy-buddy tone. "You've been dealing with a lot, we all know that. Kaczynski will give you some support, help you get back on track."

"Damn it, Weiss..."

"No, don't even start, OK?" Weiss stood up, no longer looking all that friendly. "Last week? Pulling in a suspect, no probable cause, no – Angie, you arrested Gresham for being _about_ to rob a Circle K. You've had three cases fall through over the past six months due to insufficient evidence. The department's got its hands full trying to back you up. You're a good cop. Stop chasing shadows and get back to doing your job. Kaczynski is coming in as the senior partner."

She looked down, jaw tight. It was a slap in the face, if not an actual demotion, but the worst part was that she knew it was deserved. However she'd denied and repressed her psychic abilities, it was her flair for knowing where a suspect was, her instinctive management of violent situations, that had made her reputation. Now that her abilities were no longer repressed, instead of hints and hunches she found herself bombarded with information she didn't know how to handle, and it was ruining her career.

She'd followed Gresham because she knew he was on his way to rob that Circle K, knew it would go bad. She'd seen blood everywhere, seen the young woman who'd stopped for a candy bar falling to the ground, her eyes already glazing over, seen the pimply kid behind the counter with the back of his head missing. It hadn't happened. It hadn't happened because she'd handcuffed Gresham and hauled his butt down to the station.

He was suing her for wrongful arrest. She couldn't look at him without seeing that vision of blood, illogically blaming him as much as if he'd actually done it. The way things were working out she wasn't supposed to be looking at him anyway – the chief had made it painfully clear that she was to go nowhere near him ever again. If she was very, very lucky, Gresham's case would be thrown out, given the firearm he'd been carrying. The department lawyers were pushing the 'suspicious demeanor' line for all they were worth. But truth was, it had been a wrongful arrest. She couldn't charge people with crimes they _intended_ to commit. But she couldn't have let him go, either. It was a nightmare. _Damn Constantine, anyway,_ she thought, automatically following it with her ritual response. _It's not his fault. He tried to warn you._

Weiss sighed and tapped one hand against the edge of her desk, then gave her a half-hearted wave before turning and walked back to his office. Angela turned back to her computer screen and stared at it for a full five minutes before giving up and lowering her head into her hands. Her amulet swung forward, its weight shifting against her neck. It protected her, she knew that. The few times she'd taken it off she'd seen half breeds loitering at corners, working in her bank, in the car waiting next to her at the stoplight. So damn many of them. And each time she'd looked she'd seen them catch her eye and follow her with their eerie red gazes. She saw them, and they saw her. She'd never dreamed that there were so damn many of them. With a shiver, she wondered how many were around her right now, how many of the seemingly normal people in this busy room were hiding the flames of hell behind their eyes. Raising her head, she looked around at the chattering, swearing, working crowd and saw them, in her mind's eye, with faces warping into evil shapes, rotting and burning – she grabbed the amulet and closed her eyes. _Don't get paranoid. You don't want to know. Or do you? Isn't it worse to know that they could be creeping around, whispering...touching...and you've blinded yourself?_ Just as she thought this, a hand landed on her shoulder. She jumped and whirled with a kind of strangled yell.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." Kaczynski's deep voice was placid and he drew his hand back deliberately, looking at her with open curiosity.

_Great first impression, Angie._ She straightened and grimaced at him. "Sorry. I was a million miles away, I guess. I'm Angie Dodson...I think we've met a couple of times."

Kaczynski nodded. "Sure. I've seen you around." He smiled at her, making the skin around his brown eyes crinkle and showing off a chipped tooth. "What do you say we go get some lunch, get acquainted."

She smiled back. "Sounds like the best idea I've heard all day." Pulling her purse over her shoulder and checking her holster, she stood up. Standing next to him, she realized that she barely reached his armpit. He stood aside, politely gesturing for her to lead the way. She grinned to herself, picturing John Constantine as her new partner. He'd have found a way to piss her off already, no doubt about it. He didn't know the meaning of the word polite. But he'd make a good partner – solid, someone who'd back you up all the way to hell and back. Literally. She'd have to wait and see if Kaczynski had more going for him than size and manners.

* * *

"I hear you've given up smoking."

Constantine tilted his head back to see the speaker, standing a few feet behind his armchair. Raphael gave him a small, formal nod and walked around to occupy the armchair facing him across the rug, shifting around to get his huge grey wings comfortably settled. Constantine sighed and slumped further down in his seat. "Cosmic gossip. Don't you have anything better to do?"

Raphael missed the irony. "Actually, I came here tonight hoping to talk to you about what happened with Gabriel," he said. He tucked his longish, straight brown hair behind his ears and leaned forward. His delicately feminine features were earnest, as always, his china-blue eyes serious.

"Yeah, well, I came here for some peace and quiet." The Theological Society was mostly deserted this afternoon. Father Linehan was supposed to meet him to discuss the theft of a box of relics, but just his luck, Raphael had cornered him first.

"I don't believe you fully understand the situation. It is much more disturbing than you think."

"Right, because I think dealing with Lu is such a hoot, particularly when he's ready to drag me off. Gabriel going insane just added to the fun and games."

Raphael shook his head, smiling seraphically. "Sarcasm is a feeble excuse for humor, John."

Groaning, Constantine fished out a piece of gum. Raphael went on, folding his hands carefully on his knee and kicking at the skirt of his ecclesiastical robes with one slipper-covered toe. "I am, of course, disturbed at Gabriel's fall. I had always hoped he would work out that unfortunate tendency to jealousy. I had faith that he could overcome temptation." Shaking his head sadly he said, "It appears that I was wrong."

"That must've been a surprise," Constantine muttered.

"However, there is a larger significance in Gabriel's misfortune and Mammon's mischief."

"Mischief? Misfortune? You're kidding me." Frowning, Constantine glared at the archangel. "Hell on Earth, murder – "

"Forgive me." Raphael's wings twitched, although his face remained blandly peaceful. "I know you lost friends, and I am sorry for your grief. But you are surely aware that they've gone on to a better place? And although you find yourself more alone, no doubt your new faith is a comfort."

Even when Raphael was right he was a pain in the ass. Constantine knew that the 'better place' was real, although the archangel made it sound like a Hallmark card. Since he was reasonably certain that Hennessey and Beeman hadn't gone to Hell, he was willing to admit that they were happier away from war-torn Earth and a certain asshole named John Constantine. But he didn't need it pointed out.

As for his new-found faith...dammit. He'd had a moment of clarity as he was bleeding to death, ready to give his soul itself – for what? So that the balance would remain in place a little longer? So that good would triumph over evil? The balance didn't seem any less hypocritical to him now and he didn't have any more of a clue why God should be able to gamble away human souls. He didn't have any new answers. Looking into the face of Gabriel's insanity, he hadn't needed them. He'd been entirely willing to burn forever in order to do what was right. He'd had faith...faith that good was more than an incomprehensible God with an ant farm. He believed in a loving God, and it went against everything he knew. Comforting wasn't what he'd call it. Had God planned to put him through all that pain and suffering, all that death, just so he'd be the perfect person in the perfect place to stop Mammon and Gabriel? Couldn't he have pulled off a good old-fashioned miracle instead? All Constantine had when the old questions and the old bitterness choked him was the...comfort...of his faith, and the memory of Angela's face. Raphael was watching him sympathetically. Damn.

Clearing his throat gently, Raphael said, "In the six months since Gabriel's fall, demonic activity on Earth has risen dramatically."

"I thought I was just imagining it."

"No. It seems that Gabriel has unwittingly set in motion the beginning of the end."

Constantine sat up straight. "Run that by me again?"

Raphael pressed his lips together primly and repeated, "The beginning of the end. The forces of hell have sensed the advent of the apocalypse and it has made them quite active. They have their prophecies too, you know, just as we do."

"'Quite active.' Only you, Raphael, you know that? Yeah, I've seen more half breeds around – your side and theirs – over the last couple of months than in the last couple of years."

"Of course, some of that is your growing fame. There are many who are anxious to see the human who outmaneuvered Lucifer. I understand that my brother is not happy with what people are saying. You did make a bit of a fool of him, you know." Raphael sniffed and adjusted the folds of his robe. "But most are here because when Gabriel fell, the First Seal was opened."

There was a long silence. Constantine finally vented with a low whistle. "The news lately has been scary. The takeover of most of the Middle East, the fall of the China to the Indian Empire, the rise of El Arquero in South America – nation after nation occupied. But I didn't realize...so it's not going to stop."

"No. The great Conqueror has set forth, and all the world will fall. Don't worry about it too much."

"Don't worry – "

"No one knows the timetable," Raphael cut him off, impatiently. "It may take generations before the entire world is united under one rule and the Second Seal is broken. Or it could be broken tomorrow. There isn't anything you can do about it, regardless. It's part of the natural course of things. It's foretold in the Bible in Hell just as it is in ours."

Constantine rolled his eyes. "What are you doing reading banned books?" He was surprised to see a flicker of embarrassment cross the angel's pretty face. "No, really?"

"I, well, yes." Raphael twisted a piece of hair between his fingers and refused to look directly at John. "It seems to me that – that the balance isn't entirely balanced anymore. I know it's supposed to be, but – I think something is going wrong. I think that Hell is up to something bad."

"No!"

"You don't need to be so difficult, you know. I'm trying to help." Raphael's white skin was tinged with pink.

Constantine stared for a moment and then gave him a hard smile. "No, you're not. You've come for help. You want someone to tell you it's all right. You're the one looking for comfort. Come on, Rafe, where's your faith?"

Raphael stood up, wings arching with indignation. "Suit yourself, John," he said coldly. "You have never been a what anyone would call a nice person, have you? If you don't want help I certainly don't mean to force myself on you. Do say hello to Angela, next time you see her." With that, his wings swept down and he shot upward toward the arched cathedral ceiling, fading from view as he filtered through the plaster and stone.

"That was a low blow, you feathered freak," Constantine said softly.

* * *

_**A/N: **Hiya. I saw Constantine for the first time a couple of days ago, and couldn't resist writing about what happens next. The story includes a large helping of quasi-religion mixed in with total fantasy. As far as theology goes, if it works within the context of the story I'm going to go with it, although if I make any huge mistakes with regard to Catholic beliefs please let me know!_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Rating:_** _This chapter has some squicky descriptions, but I think it's still a T._

**_Disclaimer:_** _Not mine. Pity. No money made, no damage intended. Don't sue._

* * *

_**Chapter Two**_

Glen clutched the bottle to his chest and crawled forward. Although he was barely twenty-five, he had the bloated figure and lined face of a much older man. He reached the hidey-hole at the end of the alley and curled in under the broken bricks. He could see out over the wharf to the ocean from here, but no one could see in. It was like being invisible. Chuckling, Glen worked the top of his bottle off and took a drink.

"G, G for Glen," he shouted and traced over the letter on the label. He wasn't _stupid_. He wasn't. He knew how to read. "G, G for Glenny." Taking another drink he looked out over the sea. The setting sun ran over the water like molten gold. He liked the sea, it was pretty. Cradling the bottle, he hummed. It was warm, Jenny had given him a bottle, and the sea was pretty. Jenny was pretty, too. It was a good day.

Footsteps echoed across the rotting wooden planks of the wharf, and Glen huddled back in his corner, afraid. "_Shh,_" he whispered. "_Hide under the covers, nobody sees me. Shh._" He crouched as small as he could get and waited for the man to go away. The man was carrying something. Oh, the man had a girl. It looked like the girl was sick, and Glen felt bad for her. Getting sick was bad. Maybe the man would take her to the doctors, and not find Glen. If he found Glen he might take the bottle, or yell, or make him go to the doctor too, and he didn't want to go. He wasn't _stupid_.

The man didn't take her to a doctor. Glen whimpered as he watched what the man did to the girl, wanting to run, but too afraid to move even hours after it was all over and the man was gone. The sun finished sinking into the sea, and the gentle night covered what the man had left on the wharf.

* * *

"Hot date last night?" 

Angela threw Weiss a tired glare and slid into her chair, transferring the glare to the messy stacks of files and photographs spread over its surface. She'd overslept, she was wearing a tattered old t-shirt that was the only clean thing left in her apartment, and she was forty minutes late for work.

"You gotta cut out these late nights, Angie. Who's the lucky guy?" Weiss was perched on Detective Chase's desk holding a cup of coffee. Debbie Chase tipped her long, rangy figure back until her chair hit the wall and grinned. She was the only other female in Homicide, and she and Angela had always gotten along.

"New guy, huh? Damn, Angie, where do you find time for a love life?"

"She doesn't. Check out the dark circles." Weiss held up his Styrofoam cup. "Give the woman some caffeine, quick."

"Since you're offering, make it black." Angela smiled with mock politeness and Weiss groaned, looking put upon and dragging himself to the coffee table tucked in the back of the busy room. Chase snapped her fingers impatiently.

"Well? Come on, name, age, serial number, rating from one to ten..."

"There is no guy, Debbie. I just haven't been sleeping well." She pulled her best 'nothing, really' expression on and logged in to her computer.

"Right." Chase nodded seriously and was silent for a moment. "Sure." Angela shrugged innocently. "You know, you can tell us, we're your friends..."

"Debbie, jeez, come on –"

"We're detectives, Angie. We notice things. Like, you haven't gone out with Jeff up in Vice for months. He's started moping after you like an abandoned puppy. Like, you get really, really casual and act like you're not listening every time someone mentions a certain expert weirdo..."

"Debbie!"

Chase held up her hands, her strong-featured face amused. "Don't freak, girl, I think it's great. You need to get out, loosen up a little, that's great. It's just..."

Angela hissed a quick warning and waved her hands frantically as Weiss approached their desks. "Black, as ordered, your Majesty." He set the cup down with a flourish. "And now, if your poor supervisor is allowed to speak...we've got a new one, Chase. Down near Venice, but the body's been ID'ed and she was from around here, so it's our baby."

"Female?"

"Yep. Fourteen. Sarah Peters. Looks nasty. I'm assigning it to you and Stan – "

"Nope." Chase shrugged and rocked in her chair as Weiss opened his mouth to complain. "Stan's on desk duty until IA clears him. The Sanchez case, remember?"

"God damn it –"

Angela interrupted before Weiss could go any further. "Give it to us."

Weiss looked at her doubtfully. "You and Kaczynski? I thought you were on that mall shooting."

"We made the arrest yesterday afternoon. I'll have the report in later, but we're free." She held her breath and crossed her fingers under her desk while Weiss thought it over. Sarah Peters had been haunting her dreams for days.

"No reason why not, I guess. Kaczynski's up talking to the chief. Get him, come get what we've got on this so far and get out there. Chase, as long as you're stuck at a desk you can finish up those witness reports."

Chase groaned as Weiss headed back to his office. "That sucks." Angela shoved a few files together on top of her desk, gave up, and headed past Chase's desk toward the administrative section of the police station. The tall black woman stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Angela..."

"Yeah?" She looked down, confused.

Debbie hesitated before speaking. "Look, like I said, it's great if you've found someone. But this Constantine guy. I don't hear much good about him. And he was all mixed up with your sister's death...no, don't bite my head off. Just don't rush into anything, OK? Be sure you're not...trying to hold on to things you should be letting go." She let go of Angela's arm and raised both hands in surrender. "I'm just saying."

Leaning into Debbie's desk, Angela said very slowly and clearly, "For the last time. I'm just fine. I'm not going out with anyone. And I haven't seen John Constantine in almost six months." She pushed off and turned to go.

The last thing she heard before slamming through the glass door was Chase shouting, "Sounds like you miss him!"

* * *

The half breed grunted as the back of his head slammed into the wall. Constantine let go of the demon's lapels and let him sag to the street, moaning. 

"Where is she," Constantine said again. He stepped back and kicked the half breed's shoe to one side. "Where is she." The demon stared blearily up at him through the eye the holy water hadn't eaten away.

"Over at Hinnom's," he whispered.

"Thanks," Constantine replied, almost cheerful as he lifted his shotgun. "As for you, your services are in violation of the balance."

"No wait, I told you what you wanted to know – that's not fair."

"Are you serious?" Constantine took aim and the half breed cringed away from the cross-shaped barrel. One of Constantine's homemade gold bullets, melted down from blessed relics, tore through him and moments later nothing was left in the alley but a few smoking fragments.

_At least deporting half breeds is clean,_ he thought as he walked back to where he'd parked the second-hand junker he'd bought after Chas died. _I'd love to see Angela's face if she had to haul me in for murder. No body, no crime._ He pulled out a stick of gum.

Searching for Pacha, the half breed drug-pusher, had taken longer than he'd thought it would, but it had led some interesting places. The guy he'd just deported had been running a kind of Scumbag Protection Program. A new face, a new identity, a brand new start for some of the worst molesters and murders that L.A. churned out. Apparently he hadn't been willing to give Pacha a freebie to keep Constantine off her back, but then Hell wasn't known for brotherhood and loyalty. He tossed the shotgun on the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

Hinnom was one of the big dogs in the half breed community. He specialized in variations on black magic and Satanism. With Balthazar out of the picture, Pacha had probably run to Hinnom hoping he wouldn't think tracking her down was worth taking that bastard on. Wrong.

It wasn't long before he reached the new gated community off Topanga Canyon. The gates were open and the guard shack empty when he drove through, his dented black Buick looking spectacularly out of place. The houses were huge but crowded close together – featureless, identical rows marched over the hillsides with tasteful, identical landscaping in a tiny plot next to each identical driveway. There was nothing about the last house on Azalea Street to indicate its owner's demonic origins except the cute purple-and-orange 'Welcome!' flag hung out front.

Constantine parked in the street and stepped out, glancing from side to side. Hot, late afternoon sunlight fell quietly on the sidewalks. The patches of lawn or crushed rock were oppressively neat but there was no one out pulling weeds or blowing leaves. He pulled his suit jacket off and folded it over the shotgun before he walked up to the front door. It was open a crack.

"Right." He nudged the door with the end of the concealed shotgun and stepped in, already aware that Hinnom had abandoned the house. _Somehow I doubt he heard that I was coming and ran for it,_ he thought. _Might as well check it out. _Coming out of the bright sun into the cool shadows of the house, his eyes took a second to adjust. The tiled entryway gave way to a large family area. He flipped a switch and spotlights in the high ceiling came on. They illuminated a later Medieval dungeon decorating scheme, and a lone figure spread-eagled against the far wall.

"Pacha." He strode forward, long legs carrying him across the room to face her. She had been tied hand and foot to a large iron rack. The stretch pants and Lycra tank top she'd been wearing the last time he saw her were stained and slashed. It was clear that she'd been tortured. The damage was so extreme that Constantine felt something close to pity as he looked into her eyes, still bright and aware. Then he reached out to touch one of the long gashes that ran across her flesh. His fingers came back shining and red.

_That's impossible._ He frowned, rubbing the blood over his fingers. _Half breeds don't bleed._ He glanced back at the hellish cast to her face and back at the blood on his hand. _Ichor. Bile. Whatever the goop they have is called. It's not blood._ Pacha made a soft noise, straining to get away from him, and he cursed out loud. As badly as she was hurting Hell would be worse. But she would be there soon regardless of what he did.

Quickly, he backed away and raised the gaudy shotgun. One bullet blew through what was left of Pacha. The smoking remains set fire to the bonds that had held her, which blazed and fell to the carpet. Pausing only to cover the gun with his coat once more, Constantine walked at a normal speed from the house. Starting his car, he drove sedately back out of the housing development, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Hopefully the neighborhood was as deserted as it appeared and no one would report seeing a trashed Buick on the street moments before a house went up in flames.

* * *

Kaczynski shook his head and rocked back on his heels. "So according to the parents she was coming home from her youth group and never got there. Missing six days." 

"Mmm." She watched him carefully push the girl's lank blond hair away from her face. Even in life, Sarah Peters hadn't been attractive. Now, her braces glinted in the sun, the skin pulled back into a gruesome grimace, and her pale blue eyes bulged like glass marbles. Everywhere her skin was visible, it had shriveled and mummified. Her claw-like hands clutched a pale, damp thing to her chest that Angela identified with a surge of nausea. "Any ID on the severed hand?"

"Hasn't been fingerprinted yet."

Angela stepped carefully over the neatly drawn circle of salt and sticky blood that surrounded the dead teen and gasped. Dizzy, she swayed and stumbled forward. Kaczynski stood up and caught at her elbow to steady her. "Angie? What is it?"

_Water. Cold, inhuman. Water and heat and horror and pain._ "It's...it's nothing, I'm OK," Angela lied. The air around her felt too thick to breathe, too heavy to support. _Water and pain. Raw terror and heat._

"Sure you are," he said in his deep, slow voice. "But maybe you better sit down a moment." Unable to protest, Angela let him lead her toward the unmarked Ford they had driven down to the waterfront. The moment they crossed out of the circle of reddish-brown salt crystals the suffocating presence disappeared and Angela took a deep breath. Los Angeles air had never tasted so sweet. She let Kaczynski steer her, still shaky, into the Ford's passenger seat.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He smiled at her and Angela wondered what he really thought of his new partner and her tendency to freak out at unexpected times. If it bothered him, he didn't say, and his battered face was bland. Tactfully, he moved off to consult with the M.E. while she pulled herself together. After a few minutes, she smoothed her dark hair back and stood up, embarrassed and determined to get on with her job. She even managed not to avoid the circle too obviously, until the crime scene crew was done and the body carted off. Long after dark, she and Kaczynski returned to the station.

Angela shoved the missing persons file away from her and sighed. "Okay. So the original investigation focused on Sarah as a potential runaway. Tomorrow, we can start retracing the investigation, interview everyone, this time with the assumption that she was snatched by the murderer."

Her partner nodded. "It's a start. We can't do much on the murder itself until after the autopsy. Never seen a body look like that," he confessed with a snort. "If we can figure out how she died we might have a line on the killer." He paused for a beat, thoughtfully. "To me, it looked like some kind of ritual. Black magic, maybe?"

"How would I know?" Angela said. Kaczynski looked her inthe eyes, unfazed by her belligerent reaction.

"Heard you got some experience with this kind of thing, part of what happened with your sister awhile back."

She shrugged, angry, one hand going automatically to her amulet. "I'm no expert on the occult, Mike. I've never seen anything like this."

"What about that guy, Constantine? Was he any real help, or is he just a nutcase?"

"He's not a – " She bit her lip. "Look, I – he knows his stuff. But we don't even know if this is occult related yet." _And John only deals with real demons. What if this is just a serial killer who thinks he's Harry Potter?_ Even as she thought it she knew it was an excuse. That circle had been evil, tingling with power so strong she had felt it even through the amulet's protection. "Let's get a better idea where we stand before we jump to any conclusions." _Coward._

Kaczynski was looking skeptical, but let it drop. Stretching, he gathered up his case notes and bid her goodnight. Both would have to head home, get what sleep they could in the last few hours of the night before getting back to work. In any homicide every minute counted – statistically, the longer it took them to put the pieces together, the less likely it was that they would make an arrest. Angela drove home exhausted, her mind racing, re-examining the few facts they had. _Sarah Peters._ If she could handle her gift better, would that girl still be alive?

Constantine might know. He could almost certainly help. But the thought of seeing him again made Angela's stomach cramp with apprehension in ways that gruesome deaths couldn't. The last time she'd spoken to him had been after Beeman's funeral. Even now, she flushed red with embarrassment and fury at the memory. She gripped the steering wheel tightly and turned her mind back to the case.

She didn't sleep well and woke at the first sound of the phone, rolling half out of bed to grab the handset on her nightstand. "Dodson, hello?"

"Hey, it's Kaczynski here. We've got a new development."

"Another one?" Please, no.

"No, thank God. But the medical evidence is in – Dr. Niami got interested in finding out what happened to her and did the autopsy last night. Get this, she died of dehydration."

"What?" Angela sat up and ran a hand through her hair, trying to shake the last of the sleep from her head. "She was missing less than a week. Someone kept her without water and that killed her?"

Kaczynski grunted. "More than that, I guess. Niami says it was fast and that's she's lost more fluid than he can account for by natural processes over the time period. It's more like someone popped her in a giant oven."

"Fee fi fo fum," Angela muttered, pulling on a pair of slacks and kicking through the mess in her closet looking for shoes. "Thanks for letting me know, Mike. I'll be at the station in about twenty minutes. Any other surprises before I get there?"

"Just the one, but it's a doozy." Kaczynski's voice faded a bit and she could hear paper shuffling in the background. "Niami ran a test on the blood from the circle, too, to see if it was a match for the girl's."

"Let me guess. It isn't." Angela said grimly.

"Not only is it not Sarah Peters' blood, it's not human."

"Isn't that good news?"

Kaczynski chuckled. "Sure, I guess. But it's not chicken blood either. Or cow, or pig, or sheep. According to Niami it's not mammalian, not reptilian, not avian. In fact, he thinks it's blood but he can't prove it because it doesn't look like any known kind of blood he can think of or test for."

Angela stopped with the coffee pot in one hand and the other on the faucet, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear.

"Angie?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. Look, Mike, I'll be there in a few. I've got a phone call I need to make." She set the coffee pot on the sink with a click and turned the water back off.

"No problem," he said. "I'll stay here and let Niami yak at me. He's trying to explain blood cells, but he might as well be talking Greek. He's too excited to slow down and put it in English for a poor dumb cop."

"Yeah, good," she said absently. "See you." She hit the 'send' button and ended the call then hit it again and got a dial tone. It was time to swallow her pride and admit she needed help.

"Hi, John?"

* * *

**_A/N:_** _Next chapter, John and Angela get a few clues together, Midnite gets a scene or two, and they find something scarier than devils...tune in next week._

_A big thank you to everyone who is reading this story and double that for everyone who reviewed. It's great to hear from you. If you're enjoying the story please stop to let me know. Reviews make writing more fun. :-)_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

Angela stood in Sarah Peters' room, hands in her pockets, and blew out her breath in a harsh sigh. Bookshelves held framed pictures of teens having fun and stuffed animals littered the bed, notebooks and textbooks covered with heart-and-flower doodles lying on the desk next to the computer. The room was meant to shelter an uncertain girl-child as she pushed her way through adolescence. Murder had opened it to strangers, and as Angela looked around she thought it had the creepy overemphasis of a scene from a horror movie. Pop stars on posters looked sullenly down at her, standing in the middle of Sarah's life now that Sarah had no more use for it.

With a shrug, Angela stepped forward and ran her fingers over the pictures: Sarah with her arms around a heavy, dark girl, Sarah with her parents and little sister, a group of teenagers sprawled and waving at the camera. The dark girl was there again, but Sarah must have been taking the picture. Leaving that behind, Angela picked up a notebook, wondering if Sarah had known her attacker, wondering if his – or her – name was hiding somewhere in this room. She flipped through math homework for awhile, listlessly. They'd take it all back to the station, go through it carefully. But her gut told her she was looking in the wrong place. She needed to go back, help Kaczynski interview the parents.

Next to the door, Sarah had hung a tiny mirror with a pottery frame. Thick white clouds supported the glass and a brightly painted rainbow arched over it. Angela wasn't much taller than Sarah had been and the little mirror reflected her nose and chin as she stepped to the door. Smiling faintly, Angela reached out a finger to touch the glazed clay.

_Clouds, billowing and swirling around a tall figure, hiding it from her. Wrapped in rain and mist, it looked up, reached out, grasping, warping air and earth and reality into tattered fragments..._

Angela stumbled back, blinking hard and choking back a gasp. The little mirror hung there innocently, but her skin still twitched, clammy and damp. Breathing hard, she shook herself and left the room. Quickly.

Sarah's parents sat on their couch, looking at Mike Kaczynski with weary suspicion. Angela couldn't blame them. For a week, they'd told the police that Sarah wasn't the kind of girl who would run away, that something must have happened to her. The problem was, the police heard that all the time. Every once in a while it was true. Dave and Gina Peters were sitting with space between them, Dave slumped against the arm of the couch, avoiding Kaczynski's eyes, Gina straight and tight, hands clasps in her lap, lips folded. _Sad thing is, they're the first suspects, too,_ Angela thought as she pulled a chair from the dining table to sit beside Kaczynski. _Statistically, they're the most likely. But I don't think so, this time._

Mike cleared his throat and continued in his soft deep voice. "So, she left for her youth group when?"

"Five thirty." Gina's voice was thin, like a wire ready to snap. "Dr. Sanderson holds it early, the children are supposed to be home before eight."

Her husband muttered something contemptuous under his breath and his wife glanced at him. Mike leaned forward and said, "I know. You've said all of this already. But we need to hear it again. Dr. Sanderson is the leader of the youth group? Is he a—priest, minister?"

Gina's mouth got a little tighter, a little harder. "No. He's a professor of theology who is also an elder of the church."

Angela hunched in on herself. Sarah's parents were hostile, suspicious, grieving. There was something in Gina's tone of voice that took her sharply back to her conversation with Constantine that morning.

His first words had been, "Who? Oh. What the hell do you want?" Not exactly welcoming. She hadn't thought he'd be friendly, not after Beeman's funeral, but she hadn't expected outright hostility. Her summary of the Sarah Peters case had to be quick, since she and Mike knew almost nothing at this point, but Constantine had sounded bored with it until she reached the part about the blood not being human. There'd been a weird pause at that point. Angela had almost felt him thinking, holding the phone tight against her ear and seeing him in her mind's eye, frowning, lost in thought. He informed her abruptly that he'd look into it and hung up, but she'd had the impression that he knew more than he was telling her.

"Sarah loved her group. There were about ten students in it, teenagers, girls and boys. Dr. Sanderson led them in Bible Study each week, and they raised money for activities. They weren't doing—things, bad things, drugs or anything like that. She was a good girl." Gina Peters was practically shouting now, trembling, one thin hand pressing against the side of her face, as if this would cut off the tears. "She was a _good_ girl. What do you need to know all this for? Why aren't you looking for the killer?" As she sobbed her husband sat up, fists clenched in his lap. Angela wondered why he didn't put an arm around his wife, hold her, comfort her in her grief. The hard, controlled voice Gina spoke in gave Angela the feeling that comfort wasn't something she received often, something she'd stopped expecting. Like Constantine. Dave Peters was glaring at Mike now, mouth open. Angela leaned forward and cut in before he could speak.

"How did usually get home from her youth group?"

Dave paused, obviously changing mental gears, turning his anger on Angela. "So we couldn't pick her up that night. What are you trying to say, that it's our fault?"

"No," she said, keeping her voice as level and soft as possible. "It isn't your fault. A killer like this picks his victims very carefully. Sometimes he will watch for weeks, or months, waiting for the right time. That's why we have to ask so many questions, because it's possible that anything—any little thing, someone you saw, someone Angela noticed, someone a _friend_ noticed—might help us find him. You and your wife did nothing wrong. Sarah did nothing wrong. And we're going to catch the one who did it. We're going to catch the man who killed your little girl." She watched as Dave's fist relaxed, if only a little, and caught Mike's approving glance. He took up the thread again, going over and over the events: Sarah going with her friend Traci to the church, planning on taking the bus home. It would still be daylight, the bus was a familiar route, she'd done it before. The missing persons investigation had confirmed her presence at church and several of her friends had seen her waiting at the bus stop. But she'd never made it home. Dave and Gina had seen her leave…and that was it.

"And that's it," Mike told Angela wearily, once they were back in their car, Sarah's notebooks and pictures piled in a box in the back seat. "No leads, no clues, no idea what happened to her between church and home. The bus driver can't remember if he picked her up or not. She wasn't a regular, so she didn't have an electronic pass. No record. No one on the bus that we've managed to trace remembers if she was there."

She rubbed at her face. "And no connection to Venice Beach, and no witnesses."

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. "Good job, getting them calmed down enough to keep talking."

A shrug. "Not that we learned anything new."

"Did Constantine have anything to say?"

"What? How'd you know—" She quit and fumed as she saw Mike's smug expression. "Yeah, yeah, I just told you."

He turned a corner and said, "Well, I did wonder. I hear you two are pretty tight."

This time she didn't fall for it. "People say all kinds of things," she said calmly. "Yeah, I called him after you gave me the news about the blood this morning. He didn't have any immediate information, but he said he'd ask around." She decided it was time to change the subject. "Dr. Sanderson said he'd meet with us?"

"Not until tomorrow. Apparently he's out of town until then. I've got," he fumbled in his jacket pocket, then turned away from the windshield and tried to keep the wheel in place with one hand as he twisted around to get at his back pocket, "right. This is his card." He flipped it between his fingers and offered it to her.

Releasing her grip on the dash, she took the card. Then she gasped as sensations and images flooded her mind—_clouds and rain and mist, intense heat, tattered reality like a wailing wind about her face_—choking, she fought to breathe.

"Angela? Angela, you OK?" Mike glanced at her and then pulled the car sharply over to the side of the road, causing several people to honk, swerve, and flip them off. "Angela?"

"I'm fine," she managed at last. "Really." She meant that. _It's going to be easy,_ she thought. _If this Sanderson creep is the killer, the evidence has to be there. We're going to get him_. It did make her feel better, although the business card still burned against her fingers. She took in another gasping breath. "I'm fine."

He was watching her, eyes narrowed. Something about his attitude seemed threatening. "Look, I just choked."

"Here, and at the crime scene."

"What?"

"Twice now, you've choked up. I thought last night maybe it was just the scene. It was a rough one. But you just did it again." It was definitely there, maybe not a threat, but he was evaluating her, adding things up.

She groaned. "God, I don't need this. I'm fine."

"Yeah?" Mike slowly straightened the car out and craned his neck, slipping back into traffic. "Well, part of my job is to see how you're doing yours. And to figure out why you've been going south a lot lately," he said bluntly. "It'd be a lot easier if you'd tell the truth."

"No, it wouldn't," she said, but too softly for Mike to hear. If she told him the truth, he'd think she was cracking up. If she didn't tell him, he'd still think she was cracking up. Either way, it looked like she might be out of a job before she learned to deal with her Sight. Bitterly, she wondered if Constantine could use an assistant.

* * *

Constantine finished his drink and set the glass down on the table gently, listening as it clinked softly against the wood. He'd spent all day, searching through books, looking crap up on the internet, wandering through the occult section of the library. He might as well have stayed here and gotten drunk. Waste of time. Where was Beeman when you needed him? _Oh, that's right, he's dead._ He set his head down on the table next to his glass, feeling the cold smoothness of the wood against his forehead. It felt good. He raised his head a little and slammed it down.

"So don't call her." His voice sounded weird in the empty room after a day of silent and useless research. "You can't help if you don't know what's going on. Let it go."

He fumbled in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and then remembered he didn't have any. With a snarl of frustration, he pushed to his feet and grabbed his coat. There was one more source of information to tap, and then he could give it up with a clear conscience.

Arriving at Papa Midnite's club just after dark, he left his car parked illegally. He missed Chas, too. The last six months had taught him more than he'd ever wanted to know about how much of his success in the past had depended on the people who supported him. He'd always thought of himself as a loner. He hadn't had a fucking clue what being alone meant. Striding morosely into the anteroom, he waited impatiently as the doorman held up a card. It was a new guy, thin. He looked mean, wiry and tough.

He reached for the velvet rope and started through. "Six…" Constantine trailed off, astonished. "It's—six," squinting slightly at the doorman he finished, "cups on top of an elephant."

The doorman looked dubious but let Constantine pass without a word. Constantine wondered if he'd had more to drink than he thought that day. Reading the password off the card was like tying his shoes, something too familiar to be an effort. He shook his head, figuring that everyone trips over their shoelaces now and then, and moved into the club. This early in the evening, it was red-lit and empty. Most of Midnite's clientele were real night owls. He shoved the quilted, soundproofed door to Midnite's inner sanctuary open without waiting for permission. The door had been replaced after Constantine blasted his way in six months ago, but he figured once you'd stormed a place knocking was stupid. Actually, being polite was usually a waste of time.

"Ah, it's you." Midnite swept a pile of bills neatly into a stack and down into a drawer with the dexterity of a magician or a card sharp. Constantine frowned at him and reached for a stick of gum. "I see you are still winning your fight against the demon Nicotine." Midnite grinned, his teeth flashing in his dark face. The smile didn't hide his irritation. Constantine didn't care. "How are you, John?"

"Whatever. What do you know about demon blood? Half breed blood, that is?"

Midnite's face went blank, and Constantine didn't think it was faked. "My friend, you know as well as I do that there is no such thing. Half breeds do not bleed."

"Well, shit, Midnite. I know that." He pulled out another stick of gum. If he kept shoving them in, he'd end up looking like a cow chewing its cud. Why was it that doing the smart thing always made you look like an idiot? "But I saw a half breed, bleeding. And it was a half breed, and it was blood." He tossed the wrapper to the ground. "So I thought you might know more than I do."

"You were wrong." Midnite leaned back, laying his hands flat on the desk. "I'm sorry, but—you are sure?" He waved away Constantine's glare. "All right, you're sure."

"So what now," Constantine demanded flatly. "I don't know where to go with this, you don't know damn-all about it, who do I ask next?" Midnite hesitated. "And don't give me any crap about the balance, because this is new and different. And new and different doesn't have anything to do with balance."

"I agree," he said, and chuckled at Constantine's face. "And no, hell hasn't frozen over. At least not that I've heard." He thought for a moment, then began to rifle through his drawers. Pulling out a battered address book, he flipped it open at the last page. "Madame Zora."

Constantine tilted his head suspiciously. "You're kidding, right? Sounds like a third-rate fairground hack fortune teller."

"That is exactly what she is."

Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Constantine muttered, "Give me patience. Or a cigarette, please." Nothing happened. "Why should I go see this MadameZora," he sneered. "Do I need her to read my palm?"

"Is sarcasm a way of life to you, my friend? I don't know about palms but you might want to read her library. She inherited it from her father. Who was Daniel de Gómez."

At that, Constantine whistled long and low. "Him I've heard of. One of the top occultists in the world, isn't he?"

"Until his death last week," Midnite agreed, "and most of his collected knowledge is now in the hands of his inexpert daughter. Not a talent. Not a psychic." He shrugged, leaning back and spreading his hands, the scorpion charm at his throat gleaming silver in the dim light, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. "I tell you, she now possesses a treasure she does not recognize, and is perhaps in danger she will not expect. You may be her salvation. You are not adverse to rescuing a damsel in distress, I think?"

Constantine felt a blush rise into his cheeks and cursed silently. At least he hadn't told Midnite that Angela was involved in this too. Ignoring the comment and hoping the reddish light Midnite was so fond of was hiding his embarrassment, he tilted his head and went on the offensive. "Maybe hell has frozen over. How does siccing me on this Zora gal fit in with you being neutral?"

There was a moment's pause while Midnite fished a cigar out of his desk drawer and lit it slowly with a match. He shook out the tiny flame without taking his eyes from Constantine's face. "Like you, I do occasionally learn from experience. Good falls all too easily to evil when neutrality turns a blind eye. I think my eyes have been closed for too long." He sucked on the cigar and waved both Constantine and the smoke away with one lazy hand. "Go on, I have a business to run."

Troubled, Constantine turned and left. He wasn't sure he liked this new turn of events. Midnite was one of the most powerful witch doctors alive and had definite ideas of his own which didn't often match Constantine's ideas of what should be done. Much as Midnite's vow of neutrality bugged the crap out of him on a personal level, he didn't want to see the turf war that could erupt if Midnite started taking sides. And he wasn't Midnite's errand boy, either. Head down and hands in his pockets, he headed out of the bar and into the street. Two long strides ran him straight into something solid. He snarled up at a hefty man with a prize-fighter's battered face and tried to shove past.

"John."

Frozen, he stared down at the sidewalk. He knew he had to face her, but he didn't want to. He cleared his throat and spoke without turning. "How'd you know where to find me?"

Angela Dodson stepped forward, standing next to the prize-fighter. "Mike, this is John Constantine," she said. Her voice drew a line between them, made it clear that she wasn't introducing him as an ally or a friend. After what had happened the last time he'd seen her, he supposed that was fair. "John, this is my new partner, Mike Kaczynski." Her partner nodded his head, apparently unmoved by Constantine's rudeness. "We need to talk."

Moving across the cold sidewalk under the street lights, he ignored the new partner and stepped up to Angela, getting in her space, trying to outstare her. She folded her arms and stared back, not budging an inch. He sensed her partner's amusement as the moment stretched into a slightly ridiculous battle of wills but damned if he was going to be the one to cave in. Finally, Kaczynski clapped his hands cheerfully, and they both jumped.

"How about a cup of coffee?" he said.

"Yeah, sure." Angela jerked her head at a car parked along the curb a ways, and he followed. This night was just getting better and better.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

Constantine leaned back, sipping his coffee. The acrid taste didn't mix well with the nicotine gum. Mike Kaczynski, the big guy with the squashed nose, had an espresso, the tiny cup disappearing in his huge fist. Angela wasn't having anything. She looked wired enough that caffeine would probably snap her in two. He wasn't going to start this conversation, let her do it.

After a moment Angela said, "So," glancing uncertainly at Kaczynski, "We were wondering if you'd found anything on the Peters case. Anything about this girl. Was it a ritual killing?"

He muttered something along the lines of 'no shit.' Kaczynski smiled. "What we mean is, was this a ritual taken from some occult source, or just something the killer came up with out of his own head?"

Looking at Angela, Constantine shrugged. "Haven't had much time to look. It's not something you'd find at the local library, I'll give you that."

Angela wasn't returning his look. "Did—did Midnite have anything to add?"

"No." Kaczynski snorted and Constantine glared at him. "That funny?" Idiot cops. It wasn't so bad when they kept out of his way.

Kaczynski took a breath. "Well, from what Dodson tells me, this guy's a voodoo priest? Sorry, just gets my goat, that kind of crap." He chuckled a little. "We all know," he waved his hand to indicate their booth, "ain't no spirits swooping around, waiting to be summoned. Playing with dolls." The pause that followed wasn't friendly. Angela stared at the table and Constantine stared at Kaczynski. "Anyway," Kaczynski shrugged and looked at Angela, trying to pass the conversation off to his partner.

"That reminds me, Rafael says hi." Angela frowned at Constantine, obviously trying to remember if she knew someone with that name. Damn. She needed to get rid of this jerk, so he could have a real conversation with her. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Look, Midnite gave me another name, woman with a big library, lot of rare books. I'm going to go see her, see if we can find out anything about blood rituals. Which is what this was."

Angela nodded, and there was another awkward pause. "Mike, would you mind getting me a coffee? I've changed my mind." Kaczynski's eyebrows went up, but he wormed his way out of the booth with his apparently endless good humor and sauntered over to the diner's counter. Angela leaned over the table and demanded, "Well?"

Constantine leaned back. "It was blood from a half breed. No idea how that works, but I found what was left of her and she was bleeding."

"That's not pos—"

"Spare me, OK? Otherwise, no joy. You got anything?"

Angela shot a quick glance at her partner, standing at the counter out of earshot. "I got a feeling, no—it was a vision. A couple of them. The guy who did it is a Dr. Michael Sanderson, theology professor at Living Waters University. It's definitely him. But I've got no idea why or how. Who's the woman with the library?"

"Madame Zora. No kidding. Inherited from her daddy, who was—" he cut himself off as Kaczynski reached the table and handed Angela her coffee, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Madame Zora? This the woman you're going to see about blood rituals?" Kaczynski's low voice sounded thoughtful. "Maybe we should tag along."

Constantine made an effort not to swear. "You've got nothing better to do?"

"Actually, I think it's a good idea," Angela piped in. What the hell. She went on brightly, "Mike, you can take that next round of interviews tomorrow, and I can go with John here to see his friend, search through books. It'll get everything done a lot faster."

Now both men were looking at her with bemused expressions. Constantine answered before Kaczynski could butt in. "Sure, why not. See you tomorrow." He slid out of the booth and straightened up. Throwing a five dollar bill on the table, he made for the door without another word. As he hit the sidewalk he looked back at the two of them, squeezed together on one side of the booth, talking fast. He hoped Angela talked faster, and showed up tomorrow alone. He hated cops.

With one exception, of course.

* * *

"…and the situation in Columbia continues to worsen, causing U.S. officials concern that breakdown of infrastructure, already affecting nine South American countries, will cause famine and rioting in Central America as well."

"China continues to plead with European factions for aid. Following is a video of a brutal massacre in Beijing…"

"Conflict and war across the Middle East continue to drive oil prices, which reached a record $208 per barrel this week. In other news, rioters have barricaded themselves in a military compound in Ohio, declaring succession from the United States. Federal troops…"

Angie groaned and rolled over, shoving her arm under the pillow and trying to find a comfortable position for her legs. She needed to stop listening to the news at night, it made it even harder to sleep. So much fear, everywhere. And every time she closed her eyes, she felt it, felt something move inside her, pushing at her skin, and then she would wake up, wet with sweat, clutching her stomach. Every bloody video, every story of destruction and death, which the news anchors related in professionally calm and knowledgeable voices, rolled through her dreams. Through and behind them, she knew that Hell was laughing. It made her remember her childhood, with her sister Isabel. Isabel's eyes, wounded and confused. 'Why don't you tell them, Angie? Why don't you tell them you see it too?' She hadn't. She'd let Isabel go to Hell, afraid to follow her, afraid to help her until it was too late. It was Constantine who had saved her in the end.

Constantine had been the one to open her eyes, in more ways than one. But as her gift became more and more of a burden, she grew to hate it all over again. If her Sight came from God, why did she only see demons and murderers? Why, in all her nightmares, was there no reassurance?

She snaked a hand out from under the covers and grabbed her nightstand clock, peering at the glowing red numbers. Four-ten. Shit. Giving up on getting any more sleep, she rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen, ready for coffee and another look through Sarah Peters' file. If she could just find something, some legitimate path of inquiry that would nail Sanderson with this crime, she would be able to sleep tonight. If not, there was always Constantine. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, either.

Beeman's funeral, six months ago, had been cheap and small. He'd had no family, and what Constantine could afford wasn't much. She'd been the only other mourner, and the priest had rushed through the ritual, offering them commiserating looks as fake as the plastic turf covering the piled dirt in the cemetery. Constantine had been depressed, his dark eyes baffled and angry. Standing by his car after the sordid little ceremony, she'd found nothing to say. In the end, she'd leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. An innocent gesture. At least, it had started out innocent. But the warmth, the closeness of him had made her breath hitch, tempted her to lean in, turn her head. Just slightly. For six months now she'd swung between knowing that he'd returned the kiss and total, angry embarrassment when she was sure he hadn't. Either way, it didn't matter. She'd thought he felt something for her, that he'd been, in his own weird way, flirting even during the worst of their ordeal. But in the cemetery he'd been cutting, sarcastic, slicing her away from him as certainly as if he'd used a scalpel instead of words. It was more than plain to her that he wanted nothing from her but her friendship—if that. She pressed the palms of her hands over her eyes, hard enough to see red, and groaned. Coffee wasn't helping, and she hadn't read a word of the Peters' file. Giving up on that as well, she slouched into the bathroom to take a shower.

* * *

"How far away does this gal live?" Angie asked, glaring at Constantine. His eyes were on the road, moodily focused on the distant line where the pavement faded into the dusty blue desert sky. They'd been driving more than an hour on back roads out of LA, a trip she hadn't counted on.

"Riverside," Constantine grunted.

She groaned and threw her head back. "You could've mentioned it." He shrugged.

With a tired sigh, she decided to meet things head on. "Look, you can talk. We're working this case together, right? The silent treatment is getting old."

He threw her an enigmatic glance, his jaw working on his ever-present gum. "No treatment. How long have you had the new partner?"

"Couple of days. He seems all right." A pause. "He's senior to me, got assigned to make sure I'm…okay."

That actually got him to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"Hey, you warned me, right?" She laughed, hoping it didn't sound too bitter. "I'm seeing things now, all the time. Last month I watched an old lady walking down the road, and I knew she was poisoning her son. What can I do, arrest her?"

Constantine sounded almost amused. "If you've got a babysitter, sounds like you tried."

"You can laugh." She set an elbow against the window, leaned her head on her hand. The desert outside the window had given way to suburbs. "Kaczynski's already wondering if I'm as big a freak as—" She broke off, blushing.

"As me? Hardly." He turned the steering wheel, a tiny smile on his face. "You've got a real gift with people."

"I didn't mean to offend—"

"I don't mean that." He was serious, thoughtful. "I mean, you pick up on criminals, you know what people are doing. I don't do that so much. With me it's more the other dimensions. Demons, spirits, angels. Not people."

She gaped. "Really?" She thought of him as the expert. It was odd to have him admit there was something she could do that he couldn't. He threaded through a spacious housing development. Angie classified it as comfortable, but not too pricey; a quiet, solid neighborhood with older houses and larger yards. Constantine peered at street signs and addresses, and rolled to a stop alongside the curb in front of a two-story pueblo-style house that had seen better days. "This is it?"

He didn't answer, getting out and slamming the door behind him. She scrambled to catch up as he reached the front step and rang the bell.

"Coming!" trilled a voice inside, and a few seconds later a middle-aged, faded woman opened the door. She had long, graying hair in two braids and wore a knit cap with a butterfly on it. Her style was what Angie thought of as 'granola-hippie': a long, drab skirt and a white blouse with a patchwork vest, strings of beads and braided friendship bracelets wrapped around her wrists, a thin, eager face that seemed anxious to wish them love, peace, and harmony with the universe. There was a strong smell of children and incense hanging around her.

"Yes? Oh! You are John Constantine? That wonderful, spiritual man, he calls himself Papa Midnite? You know him? Yes, he called and said you were coming. Come in, come in, and you are—oh, sorry, the kids leave their toys all over—did you want something to drink? I sensed this morning that there would be opportunities, opportunities to expand, to grow, and here you are. Spiritual, emotional growth. It's my card, you know, the Queen of Cups—because I am sensitive. Too sensitive, really. Right now, I can sense such strong auras about you both! I think, John—I'm sure you don't mind if I call you John?—that you must seek spiritual guidance, seek out your mystical side. It's so rare that I see someone who has such resonance! You are a sensitive, I'm sure of it."

Angie wondered how the woman managed to get any oxygen into her bloodstream, since she seemed to use it all talking. She didn't dare look to see how Constantine was taking the advice to get in touch with his mystical side. They were seated in the living room, she and Constantine perched on one sofa while their host sat in a large armchair opposite. She hadn't given them her name, although it seemed obvious she was the one they'd come to see. "Madam Zora?"

"Oh, call me Nadine. Zora's for work, it inspires people to be more receptive to the energies. Are you sure you won't have something to drink?"

"No," Constantine said. "Did Midnite mention why we were coming?"

Nadine the fortune teller blinked at him. "You are very businesslike, very focused. But don't allow that to override your creativity. Mr. Midnite said you wished to do some research on the occult. Of course, I have all of my dear father's books. It's a very celebrated collection, you know, just fascinating. Not that true wisdom is found in printed pages. It's from the spirit that—"

"Time is an issue here."

Feeling that Constantine had been too curt, Angie rushed to explain, "You see, I'm a police officer," she showed her badge automatically, "and we have a crime which seems to be occult in nature—or committed by someone based on occult practices. Your library may help us to find out what this person thinks he's doing, and possibly give us a line on who he is."

"Oh?"

Angie talked on, and shortly Nadine was leading them to the back of the house. Through a high arch edged in tiles they could see a large room lined with bookcases, some of them glass-fronted and locked, others packed with oversized books covered in peeling leather. Constantine's eyebrows went up and he nudged Angie, pointing at the squiggly, Arabic-looking designs on the tiles. She had no idea what their significance was, but she remembered the signs carved along the jamb of Constantine's apartment door and wondered. Nadine, displaying unexpected competence, explained the organization of the library and even pulled up a computer file with a cross-referenced index of titles and subjects. Constantine was taken aback.

"Papa was so proud of his library, you know, he wanted to be able to find anything at a moment's notice," Nadine said, enjoying his surprise. "He loved all kinds of technology, too."

"Who doesn't?" Constantine answered with a straight face, and Angie and Nadine rolled their eyes behind his back. Within a short while, they'd found a subject file named 'Blood Rituals' and in it a reference to 'blood rituals-demonic' and a list of titles. Unfortunately, that was where the easy part ended. Three-quarters of the volumes named were in Latin or German, and the rest were handwritten or printed using a funny, archaic script where 's' looked like 'f' and the sentences were so convoluted and difficult Angie thought the Latin must be easier to decipher. Constantine could read Latin, and looked smug about it. She asked him if he could manage the German, too, and got a level stare that might have meant anything from 'naturally' to 'fuck you.' Sighing, she joined Nadine at a long table in the middle of the room and they began sifting through the books they could read.

Two hours later, Constantine hissed. "This is it." Nadine, bleary but still cheerful, blinked at him. Angie jumped up to peer over his shoulder, forgetting that it wouldn't tell her anything.

"Nadine, would it be possible for me to borrow this book?"

"Oh no," she said immediately. "No, I don't think so. Papa always insisted that none of his books should leave this room. He left this house to me when he died, you know, and there were some things that he didn't want changed. I've always tried to respect his wishes—"

"Please," Angie said, "It's a murder investigation, and we need time to get this translated and figure out what it means."

The fortune teller nodded, anxious to help. "Oh, I see that, I really do, and you're a Taurus, aren't you dear? Always ready to charge in, and protecting of the less fortunate. But won't a copy be just as good?" She waved at the printer-copier next to the computer. "And I will keep looking for information for you, in these volumes, if you'll give me your email."

Constantine opened his mouth, closed it, and stalked over to the copier as if it had insulted him personally. Nadine stacked her books neatly in the center of the table and picked one up off the floor, frowning at it. Constantine, waiting for the printer to finish spitting ink on paper, smiled thinly and opened his mouth—and closed it, looking confused. Almost afraid. Angie looked from him to Nadine and wondered what he was seeing. As soon as they were back in the car, she asked.

"Nothing."

"Come on, you looked—well, like someone else would look if they'd seen a ghost." Angie was getting tired of having to pull information out of him.

"I mean it. I wanted to read the title off the book, make some comment, spook her a little." She made a face at his childishness and he shrugged it off. "And nothing. I couldn't see it. I couldn't pick up anything."

"Why not? Is this that people thing you were talking about earlier?"

"No. I'm not as good with people, but I'm not fucking blind." Constantine pulled on the steering wheel, pushed on the gas and sent the car skidding into the road to Los Angeles. "I've been…" he trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. "It's like I've been having trouble seeing, a couple of times lately. Like my Sight is…I don't know, forget it."

His tone of voice told her to drop the subject. "What about Nadine? Didn't Midnite tell you she might need help, that half-breeds might try to get at her because of her collection?"

She saw his shoulders relax, tension seeping back out of him. "Looks like her dad thought of it first. It's not just the library that's under protective spells—you saw them, on the tiles? There's more, all over the house, worked into the building itself. As long as she's there, she's OK."

"Sounds risky. What about when she goes out?" She shifted, trying to work the kinks out of her shoulders, and wished they didn't have such a long drive ahead of them.

"Life's a risk. And attacking her wouldn't get anyone with hellfire inside them access to that library." He popped another piece of gum in his mouth. "Anyway, we've got other problems. According to this," he tapped the pages shoved into a file on the seat between them, "a virgin killed in a ring of holy salt and what it calls 'waters of Hell' lets you do some unpleasant things with the eyes of a drowned man."

"There was a severed hand found with Sarah Peters' body—that doesn't really fit. And what are 'waters of Hell'? You said water is like," she tried to remember, "an interdimensional conductor, right?"

"There is no water in Hell."

"Dammit, Constantine—"

"I'm trying to explain here, OK?" He glared at her and then back at the road. "It has instructions on how to get blood from a demon, or a half-breed. That blood is called the waters of Hell."

"That is unfortunately correct, John."

The prim, quiet voice coming from the backseat made Constantine swerve and curse. "Shit, Raphael, what the hell are you doing here?"

Angie, her heart going so hard she could feel the pulse in her neck beat, turned slowly to see what was in the backseat. In spite of too much experience with the supernatural over the last year, finding a being suddenly present in a moving car—a sweet-faced, slender person with huge gray wings awkwardly curled in the limited space—was disturbing. It was like the first time she'd felt a California earthquake, not so frightening in itself but taking away what had always been the certain solidity of ground. Something that she'd always taken for granted as secure had been violated. She wondered if she'd spend the next few months spooking at every little noise in a car, thinking there was someone behind her.

"Would you please keep your eyes on the road?" Raphael asked Constantine plaintively. "Safety first, when driving."

"Son of a—" Constantine sighed. "On second thoughts, I don't think I'll finish that phrase. Angela, this is Raphael."

"The archangel," she said. Her voice was flat and hard, not from disbelief but because she couldn't process the information. All the years in Catechism, nuns and priests talking about the hosts of heaven, glorious stained glass windows and carved, gilded statues ran through her mind. And here was Raphael, uncomfortably squeezed into the back of a Chevy sedan.

"Hello Angela, it is a pleasure to meet you," Raphael said, spreading his robes neatly over his knees and tucking his straight brown hair out of his eyes. "It is so nice that John is making new friends."

Angie smothered a laugh, wondering if Raphael was about to offer them milk and cookies. "Um, it's nice to meet you too." The archangel beamed at her.

Constantine said, "Did you have something to say, or are you just being a pain in the butt? Because we're busy."

"John—" Angie said.

"Yes of course," Raphael interrupted her. "I wanted to tell you that the ritual you have found, the Sacrifices to Hell, are in fact what you were looking for. I suggest—"

"Sacrifices? You mean more than one?" Angie asked, appalled.

"Yes, there are four total," Raphael said. "I suggest that you look into the book of Revelation, Chapter Ten, for further clarification. It's all there."

Constantine smirked into the rearview mirror. "Which one?"

"Ours, naturally." Raphael seemed nettled, but Angie didn't know why. "Try to keep hold of your faith, John. Like I said, it's very good to see Angela accompany you on this." Angie felt like mentioning that it was her case, not John's, but was too shy to contradict him. "The long, dark night of the soul is so much longer and darker when you're on your own."

And then Raphael was fading away, wings springing out beyond the frame of the car, rising into insubstantiality with a final, gentle, "I'm sorry, but I must be going…"

"Well." Constantine kept driving and Angie turned back around, settling her seatbelt into place. "That was…sudden."

"That was illegal," Constantine corrected. She looked at him, surprised, to see that his face was drawn and grayish, as though he'd had a bad shock. "Angels can suggest, hint, encourage—but they don't come down and give information. Raphael is breaking the rules, ignoring the balance. He's not supposed to help." He grinned at her, looking like he might be sick. "They're definitely not supposed to give you chapter and verse. Something is really wrong."

"When isn't it?" Angie said, and got no answer.


End file.
